


What's in This Drink?

by desirayparker20



Category: Marriage Story (2019)
Genre: 1960s, Abortion, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Black Character(s), Christmas, Dark, Derogatory Language, Discussion of Abortion, Domestic Violence, Drug Use, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mild Language, Name-Calling, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:53:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26605543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desirayparker20/pseuds/desirayparker20
Summary: In the middle of her ascent to stardom, Broadway actress Rita Kingston marries famed stage director, Charlie Barber. Unfortunately, the union is not a blissful one. Barely two years into her marriage, Rita's happy home is more so a traumatic cage.
Relationships: Charlie Barber/Original Character(s), Charlie Barber/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 16





	1. Tears in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Early 1960s

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rita faces consequences for a decision she made long ago. (December 1963)

_“I really can’t stay…”_

_“_ _Mama, it’s cold outside!”_

_"I’ve got go away…”_

_I said it’s cold outside!”_

Rita Barber was the object of affection, envy, and even fetish. She was “perfect” - according to various standards. Some would say there was one little feature that made her imperfect, but they only lie to themselves. Her short hair was voluminous this evening. She’d painted her face like a model--like the actress she came to New York to be eight years ago. Her foundation was caked on her face. Sparkling green eyeshadow made her brown eyes pop, and her lips were luscious under the dark, red stain.

A sparkling gold dress adorned her long and lean brown body. The garment and her jewelry twinkled brighter than the star atop their tree--for the sequins shimmered with every maneuver through the living room, catching everyone's eye. She carried a tray around, offering Hors d'oeuvres to party guests. It wasn't a particularly large party. About fifty people filled their living room and foyer: a few performers, a couple of models, agents, artists; businessmen, and their wives. And they weren't the "far out" Beatnik types. These guests were _very_ glam. Very "mainstream".

On her way back to the kitchen, Rita spotted Charlie walking into his study with his publicist, Darryl. She thought nothing of the private meeting and made her way through the dining room and into the kitchen. Vera looked at the tray and smiled. 

"They like the appetizers, ay?" she asked.  
  
Rita smiled as she placed the near-empty tray on the island counter. "I believe they do."  
  
"I told you, Mrs. B. Wrap it in bacon or stick a toothpick in it, and they'll scarf it right down."  
  
Rita laughed.

"I'll take the champagne out," Vera volunteered. "Wouldn't want you spillin' anything on that pretty dress, Mrs. B."

* * *

The silence was deafening. Scary. No more Christmas music. No more chatter and clinking of glasses. Vera was gone. The kitchen was clean. Nothing. _No one_. Just Rita and her husband, Charlie.

Something wasn't right. She hadn't done anything upsetting (that she knew of), but Rita was still a bundle of nerves. She found temporary solace in the bathroom. Charlie was pouring his final drink for the night when Rita retreated to the bedroom. She changed into a nightgown, then went into the bathroom. First, she stared in the mirror for a few seconds. She had to make sure that Rita Kingston was still there.

Eventually, she applied cold cream to her face and removed her makeup with a fresh cloth. And there it was. There _she_ was. Rita Kingston? No. Rita Kingston _Barber_. Who she was _now_.

The bathroom lighting became a spotlight--highlighting the discoloration around her eye. It was almost healed. She stared at her reflection and felt her spirit separating from her body. There was no Rita Kingston. No Doll of Broadway (or Black doll, as they always made certain to specify in the press). She was supposed to be a STAR. She was _hope_!

Now, here she was in her husband’s home of fifteen years. She’d stopped calling it her home the second time he hit her. The first time was just a terrible mistake, right?

Here she was, the critics’ favorite, looking at her abused reflection--calculating how long this bruise had been on her body, and how much longer that bruise had before finally clearing up. She wanted to cry, but her well was almost empty. She’d spent the last two years crying. Begging. Screaming. Running, even. She was tired. But still--there was that feeling...

The stairs creaked with each step upward. Charlie walked into the bedroom and Rita found new things to do. She brushed her teeth and tied up her hair. She used the restroom and wiped down the counters with soap, water, and tissue. She heard Charlie’s movements--and waited to hear the squeak of their mattress. And finally, she did. She opened the bathroom door, turned off the light, and floated into the bedroom. Charlie’s eyes followed her across the floor. When she climbed under the covers, he turned off the lamp on his nightstand. Only he had a lamp. Only _he_ had a nightstand.

“Goodnight, Honey,” Rita said softly.

Charlie wrapped his arm around her and kissed her cheek--the scent of alcohol floated into her nostrils and quickly dissipated. Rita exhaled a soft sigh of relief and turned over onto her side, expecting Charlie to want to spoon. _Sometimes_ he was warm. _Sometimes_ he was soft. When Rita's body found the perfect spot, Charlie slid close, and she felt his nakedness--and an erection. A chill went down her spine. Before she could speak, he finally did.

“What’s this I hear about you getting an abortion?” he asked.

Rita’s eyes widened. Her heart began to pound.

“Huh?”

“ _Huh?!_ ” Charlie mocked.

Rita tried to squirm away, but he pressed his arm against her belly, keeping her still and close to him.

“Is it true?” he asked.

Tears fell down Rita’s face.

“No,” she said, voice cracking.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Rita bit her lip and let the tears flow. She _did_ still have water left in her.

 _Did Charlie have proof? Was he bluffing?_ Charlie snatched her out of her thoughts.

He yanked her onto her back and climbed on top of her.

“Charlie…” she mumbled, barely able to get his name out.

He threw the covers off his back and grabbed at her nightgown--quickly finding the hem of its skirt.

“Charlie!" she screamed. She began to plead with him. "No! Please, honey!”

Rita writhed under him and tried to push him off, but he was much too strong. He grabbed her jaw and squeezed.

“You _really_ make it hard for me to be nice to you, Rita,” he said.

The scent of liquor was now a suffocating cloud in her space. Still holding on to her jaw, Charlie quickly wiped his face with his free hand. He always cried when he hurt her.

Then, he pulled her nightgown up.

“I bring you into my home, buy you all kinds of nice things..." he rambled. Rita heard him sniffle. "Even hire a fucking maid for you. And you repay me by getting rid of my child?!”

Rita shook her head profusely.

“No, it’s not true, Charlie. It didn’t happen, I swear.”

Charlie sat up and let go of Rita's jaw, only to slap her across the face. A pained cry emanated from her throat.

“Lying fucking bitch,” Charlie growled.

He pressed down on her sternum and ran the fingers of his other hand around her crotch until he found the seat of her panties. Rita screamed and convulsed under the weight of his body, to no avail. He moved his hand from her chest and covered her mouth. He pulled her panties to the side and she felt him lining himself up outside of her.

“We’re gonna fix your fucking mistake right now,” he said. Then, he buried himself inside of her.

Rita’s muffled screams went nowhere. Vera was gone. The guests were gone. It seemed that all of New York City had chosen tonight of all nights to turn in early.

Rita's tears instilled no sympathy in Charlie’s heart--despite the teardrops that fell on her forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music Reference: "Baby, It's Cold Outside" - Louis Armstrong and Velma Middleton (1951) (Lyrics by Frank Loesser)


	2. First Aid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie attempts to soothe Rita after a traumatic night.

_**Three Months Ago  
** _

Eyes squinting and eyebrows furrowed, Miss Z looked Rita up and down.

 _Yes, you know me_ , Rita thought.  
  
"You're married, Honey?" she asked. It was posed as a question, but she knew the answer.

"Yes, ma'am," Rita answered. Miss Z nodded and motioned for Rita and Diane to follow her.

"Ain't you got one of those fancy uptown doctors?" she asked. Her house seemed to be falling apart on the outside, but the interior was gorgeous. Lived in--and the life was well-lived. There appeared to be decor and little trinkets from various parts of the world. Or the country, at least.

Rita swallowed at the question and shook her head. "No, I can't go to him."  
  
Diane wrapped her arm around Rita and rubbed her shoulder. 

Miss Z led them down to her basement. It was unfinished, but the like the first floor, very neat and warm. Cozy. _Welcoming_. But then, there was the table in the center of the room. 

"Take off your skirt and your underwear, and get yourself comfortable on the table," Miss Z instructed. "It's nice and clean. I'm going to go wash my hands."

  
  
The procedure seemed to last for hours. But Diane held her hand the entire time. Miss Z administered maternal rubs to her patient's leg. She warned her of imminent pain and praised her for her strength. Then, it was over. It was risky. It was long.

But it was over.

Rita and Diane walked past a handful of curious eyes on their way to the car and got back to the Barber brownstone before Charlie did. Thankfully, he was too tired to have sex or squabble--and Rita had long planted her body in the warmth of their bed. 

* * *

  
"Honey?"

Rita didn't respond. She was still lying on her back. At some point, she fell asleep. Maybe she'd fainted. But for hours--probably once every hour--she opened her eyes to the threatening darkness and clamped them shut. She'd quietly prayed that her recent memory was just a nightmare.

But she felt him. With every passing hour, it seemed she could feel him more. He was in there. Her inner flesh had long absorbed him _and_ his demons.

Eventually, sunlight peeped through the curtains. And Charlie, having isolated himself in his son's old bedroom, walked into the master bedroom. 

"Rita?" he inquired again.

Still, she said nothing. His footsteps got closer, and suddenly, his boxers and pale thighs appeared in front of her. Rita's heart skipped a beat and she turned her face around. Then, the mattress dipped beside her, and she felt body heat at her side. Charlie gently ran his knuckles along her cheek.

"I'm sorry I was so rough with you last night," he said.   
  
_Rough_.

The mattress lifted as Charlie stood up. He walked around the bed and into the bathroom. Rita turned her face back the other way and listened to the bathwater run. Charlie walked in and out of the bathroom--moving things. Grabbing things. Then, the water stopped running. 

He returned to the bedroom and pulled the covers away from Rita. Her eyes widened and she instinctively cringed when he picked her up. He carried her to the bathroom bridal style and put her on the floor. The coldness of the linoleum under her feet sent shockwaves through her body.

Charlie tugged at the straps of her nightgown, and she stepped away, wincing. He noticed her movement, looked in her eyes, then back down as he continued to pull the silk down her body.

"I'm sorry, Honey," he said.

The breaths she took through her nose became audible. Charlie picked her up in a bridal carry again and carried her to the tub. He lowered himself and gently placed her inside. The hot, bubbly water immediately soothed her aching body. Heavy waves crashed against her pubic area and rippled over her thighs. It made her clamp her lips tighter and wince at the sting inside. She stared ahead at the silver faucet--watching the distorted figures in the chrome. 

Charlie had built a setup beside the tub--a bathing sponge, soap, a facecloth, and unscented face soap. He grabbed the face cloth first and dipped it in the water. Then, he rubbed her face soap over it and began wiping her face. The cloth made contact with her lip and she pulled them in again--her eyes narrowed for a second. Charlie stopped wiping her face, folded the cloth on the side of the tub, and retrieved a cotton swab from the vanity cabinet. He wet both sides and brought it to the tub with him. Then, he rubbed it along her face soap.

He wiped her busted lip clean--getting many glances into her dead eyes. Then, he wiped the soap away with the other end of the swab. 

"You don't want to have my children?" he asked, cutting through the silence. There might as well have been an echo in the bathroom. Rita's eyes darted in his direction. And he awaited an answer.

"Someone saw you and a woman leaving Miss Zelda Sullivan's house. I assume the woman was Diane," Charlie said. Rita looked back at the faucet.

"Whoever it was, they tried to sell your story to the press," Charlie continued. He carried the soiled cotton swab to the trash bin and dumped it. "Fortunately for us, people like Darryl. And his clients."  
  
Charlie knelt at the tub again and dipped the bathing sponge in the water. "Miss Sullivan confirmed the story."  
  
Rita's eyebrows knitted together. She was hurt. She thought she could trust Miss Z. A lump formed in her throat. Charlie rubbed the same areas of her body--her shoulders, chest, and arms--over and over.

"You don't want to have my children?" he repeated. Rita saw him staring at her, but she couldn't peel her eyes away from the reflection. She didn't want to look at him.

"I did before you started hitting me," she answered meekly.

The tears rolled down her cheeks. Her mouth finally joined her nose in breathing.

At the sight of her tears, Charlie averted his eyes and stared at the top of her breasts--most of her flesh still submerged in bubbles. Rita pulled her knees up and rested her arms over them. Then, she rested her face on her arms and turned her head away, opting to stare at the beige tiles as opposed to her husband's face. Charlie finally moved the sponge to her upper back and began to scrub softly.

"Would you like some coffee?" he asked.


	3. Rita's Sins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie promises to be a better husband, and Rita is confronted by his publicist.

_"I'll be home for Christmas... you can count on me._

_Please have snow and mistletoe..._

_...and presents on the tree."_

  
"Hey, Dad! How are you?"

Rita heard Charlie pour a liquid. The cordial, she was sure.

"What's Mama doin'?" she asked into the phone. "Well, I won't interrupt her. I'll ca--" Rita paused and chuckled.

"Hey, Mama! I told Daddy I didn't want to bother you..." Rita rocked side to side on her heels. Then, she heard the plush movement of the sofa cushion behind her. "I'm doing fine..."

Rita forced a smile. "Yes, I'm sure." She looked over her shoulder and into the darkened study. Charlie was sitting on the sofa facing the door, staring directly at her as he sipped his drink. The fireplace roared beside him.

"He's alright. We're about to get cozy for the night." She faced forward again.

Rita listened to her mother talk and let out a nervous laugh. "No, we're just going to relax. Sit by the fireplace..."

"Well, I'm glad you came to the phone, Mama. I'll try to call you tomorrow. Hopefully around dinner time?" Rita smiled and nodded to herself. "Alright. Love you. Bye."

Though she didn't want to, Rita hung up the phone and walked into the study--her bare feet dragging against the glossy wood. She sat on the sofa beside Charlie and he rested his arm on the sofa's back.

"You look beautiful," he said. She wore a short, pink peignoir set. Fur lined the sleeves and bottom hem of the sheer covering. Of course, he asked her to wear it.

He pointed to the coffee table, directing Rita's attention to her glass of berry cordial. Vera had made the drink--her Christmas gift to them. She'd been brewing it since the day after Thanksgiving, she said.

"Thank you," Rita said--to his compliment and the beverage. She grabbed the glass, took a sip, and put it back down.

"Why are you so far away from me?" he asked. He put his glass down and pulled Rita close. She swallowed. Louder than she intended. But Charlie just pulled her closer. Her head fell on his chest and he kissed her forehead.

"I love you. You know that?" he asked. His heart made desperate contact with her cheek. **Bump**. **Bump**. **Bump**. **Bump**. "I love you so much," he added.

He tightened his arm around her, pulling her closer than she thought was possible.

"Do you love _me_?"

"Yes. I love you," Rita answered.

He kissed the top of her head. "I haven't been very good to you this year."

_This year._

"Between the show and Kennedy, I've just been so stressed out. On edge."  
  
Rita offered no response or understanding. She just let him talk. His hand ran up and down her arm. Rita envisioned herself moving away from him, but her body was so limp. So tired. So dead.

"If I were you, I'd get rid of my baby, too."  
  
He lifted his head and let out a deep breath. The logs crackled beside them. Bing Crosby's voice filled the silence that Charlie had created.

"I'm going to be a better man. I'm going to work on my anger," he said. "When I married Nicole, I swore to myself that I wasn't going to be like my father was to my mom. Or to me." His chest bounced against Rita's ear as he grunted. Rita's eyes began to burn.

"I fucked it up, anyway. With her _and_ Henry," he continued. "But I swear. From this point forward, I'm not going to keep fucking up with you."

Another kiss to her forehead. Then, Charlie tilted her face up by her chin. He was greeted by watery brown eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked.  
  
Rita's eyes fell downward. "You said all of this last year, too." She sniffled and fought to keep the tears in. 

"Yeah, I did," he said, volume higher in his voice. "And I _meant_ it last year. But I can't do it alone, Honey."

He began rubbing her arm again. His voice returned to a soft lull. 

"We've got to be better to each other. We _both_ said vows. You knew I had a temper when you met me."  
  
The tears fell. Rita had heard all of this before. And this year, he was even blaming _her_ for the bruises and the scars...the pain in her pelvis.

"But I'm going to fix things," he said. He gently lifted Rita's body, rose from the sofa and rushed out of the study. She heard him go into the living room. Rita wiped her tears and took a sip of her cordial. Suddenly, she pulled it away and stared at it for a second. She put the glass down and switched it with Charlie's, and took sips out of his glass. Then, she placed it back down on the coffee table as Charlie returned with a large box in his hand. He sat back down and placed the box on Rita's lap.

"Open it."  
  
There was no gift wrap over it. Rita tugged at the taped sides and lifted the top. The gift was covered with tissue paper, and she lifted the thin layer. Under it was a fur stole. She forced a smile.

"Do you like it?" he asked.  
  
Rita searched for adequate words.

"Yes, Honey." She lifted it out of the box.

"It...it must have cost you a pretty penny," she said, trying to flatter him.

"Nothing but the best for you, Beautiful," he said--amber eyes burning indentations in her skin. "Try it on."  
  
Rita stood up and wrapped the stole around her. She stepped back to get a wider view in the mirror over the fireplace. It was nice. She looked great in it. But she didn't feel great.

Yet, she forced another smile. Charlie stood up, got behind her, and wrapped his arms around her. He stared at their reflection, then kissed her on the cheek.

"The most beautiful woman on Broadway. That's what your _Life_ cover said. '58?" 

"I think so."  
  
"And they were _so_ right."

Charlie's hand slipped down to Rita's belly. He rubbed a couple of circles around it, then ran his fingers down to her thigh. Rita took a deep breath through her nose and instinctively moved her hips opposite his touch. 

"And I made you _my_ wife. Made you all mine."

* * *

  
  
_"My mother will start to worry (Beautiful, what's your hurry?)_

_...my father will be pacing the floor (listen to the fireplace roar)_

_So really I'd better scurry (Beautiful, please don't hurry)..._

_...but maybe just a half a drink more (put some records on while I pour)."_  
  
  
Many of Charlie and Rita's shared friends came over. She'd maintained few old friendships or associations since she got engaged to Charlie--just Diane and Myron, her manager. Even her relationship with Myron had been reduced to phone calls and telegrams--since she was barely working anymore. She assumed he'd call her later, or probably the next day. And Diane had gone down to Houston with her husband to spend the holidays with his family. She'd probably get no phone call from her as long as Charlie was home. Diane didn't like to talk to Charlie, and he typically answered the phone when he was home.

Rita had poured drink after drink for guests who came bearing gifts--and poured herself one every other hour, too. They chatted in the foyer, in the living room, in the study, then the visitors left for their next stop. 

It was around three o'clock when Darryl and his wife, Suzanne, stopped by, just as the Coopers were about to leave. Being the dutiful wife, Rita offered the Pryors something to drink. Wine? Coffee? Water? Soda? _No thanks_ , they said. 

Then, Rita disappeared into the study and poured herself another drink--hoping to calm her nerves. To ease her anger. The dying fire still had enough power to warm her legs and soothe her.  
  
"Merry Christmas, Rita," a voice said behind her. She put the decanter back on the mantle of the fireplace, and Darryl tugged the door closed--but not all the way. 

"Good evening, Darryl," Rita said cooly. 

"I wanted to talk to you about...well, about a personal matter that needs discussing," he said.

Darryl was just Charlie's publicist, but he sometimes acted like his big brother or his father. Charlie's manager _never_ got this pushy or involved in the Barbers' personal affairs.

"I don't think I want to talk about it," Rita said. She downed the drink and poured another.  
  
Darryl nodded. "Very well. I'll just say this. If you're going to put you and your husband's careers in jeopardy, I'd advise you to be a bit more discreet."

Rita shook her head in disbelief, then took another sip.

"What are you doing going all the way to Jersey for an abortion?" he asked. "More importantly, _why_ did you get a damned abortion?"  
  
Rita put the glass down on the mantle. "That's none of your business."

Darryl stepped further into the study.  
  
"I would agree with you. But when two gossip columnists call me to tell me that my client has some shit going on in his marriage--I'd have to say these situations _become_ my business," Darryl said. "And Charlie is also my friend. And I want to know what kind of woman he married. What kind of woman aborts her husband's baby?"  
  
"Look, you needn't wonder or worry anymore," Rita said. She picked her glass up again. "Thanks to you, your _friend_ may have raped another baby into me anyway."

"Don't blame me for your sins, Rita."

Rita scoffed and downed the remainder of her drink. Then, she walked through the study toward the door. 

"You need to go talk to your _friend_ about _sins_ ," she said.

Darryl grabbed her arm, and she winced--then, tried to pull away.

"Say, what's all this, huh? You're no fucking victim, Rita. The man was fresh out of a divorce and you were already in his fuckin' bed," Darryl mumbled through clenched teeth.

"That's not true and you know it," Rita said, trying to yank away again.

"True or not. _You're_ his wife now. It's _your_ duty to keep this shit looking good, just like it's mine." Darryl leaned in close to her.

"I don't give a fuck if he slaps you in the middle of Times Square or fucks you on the president's fuckin' lawn. You know what you married into. Now you do your fucking job and keep your vows. Keep the bastard happy. Keep wearin' your fancy dresses and making your fancy little appetizers and shit. And if the man's dick gets hard, you'd better be on the fuckin' bed with your knees in the air. I don't want to hear any more of this "rape" shit. Got it?"  
  
Darryl let Rita's arm go, and she nearly fell over. He walked out of the study and Rita dragged back to the fireplace.

"What were you two talking about?" Charlie asked. Rita emptied the decanter of cordial into her glass.

"I was just thanking Rita for taking care of you, Buddy," she heard Darryl say. 

Rita sat on the sofa with her drink and took another sip. Then, she rubbed the glass over her forehead and cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music References: 1) "I'll Be Home for Christmas" - Bing Crosby (1943) (Lyrics by Kim Gannon); 2) "Baby, It's Cold Outside" - Dean Martin and Female Chorus (1959) (Lyrics by Frank Loesser)


	4. Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rita makes a major decision. Well...the decision is made for her.

**August 1958**

"It's going to be so strange not seeing Nicole here," a woman said as she walked through the iron gate her date held open for her. The man nodded behind him and left it open.

Rita, Diane, Remy, Myron, and Ethel were yards away from the couple. Then, Remy held the gate open for everyone, and Diane rang the doorbell.

"How do I look?" Rita asked, fluffing out her cocktail dress. 

"Perfect as always, Honey," Diane responded. Rita smiled and the door flew open. 

"Good evenin'," Darryl said, widening the door. "Glad you could make it."

Charlie Barber's home. Formerly Charlie and Nicole Barber's home. The foyer looked like something out of an old MGM movie. Warner Brothers, actually--a room Bette Davis would have shot someone in. A handful of people stood in the foyer--probably dying to discuss the details of their private after-parties away from listening ears.   
  
The group walked in and shook hands with Charlie Barber's publicist. Myron knew of him through mutual friends and associates and introduced him to his wife, Ethel. Then there was Diane--known to the world as Diana Hall. She was an ensemble character in Charlie's last show and was quite familiar with Darryl Pryor--the tough, but seemingly fair man who'd been making Charlie Barber look good since he was nineteen years old--a young Lionel Barrymore, they called him.

Diane introduced Darryl to her husband, Remington, and Darryl introduced himself to Rita Kingston--the former chorus girl from Georgia who, after being in New York for four years, had finally lit a match on Broadway and soon set Hollywood ablaze with her three-minute musical sequence in _The Girl's Got It_. Throughout 1957 and 1958, she'd been on the covers of _Ebony_ , _Jet_ , _Tan_ , _Hue_ , and most recently, _Life_.

And Charlie Barber wanted _her_ in his next show. 

"It's like _The Seven Year Itch_ , but a drama. Sexier. More true to life," Charlie said. He paced the floor with a cigarette between his lips as Myron and Rita sat on the sofa--watching and listening.

"How sexy are we talking?" Rita asked.

"Yes, _how_ sexy are we talking?" Myron asked. "Rita's can be a sensual performer, but she isn't raunchy."

Charlie chuckled. "It's raunchy. Suggestive. The kind of shit that would make Tennessee Williams blush."

Rita's eyebrows lifted and Charlie walked to his desk. He flicked ashes into an amber ashtray.

"Well, Mr. Barber--" Myron started.

"If you don't do agree to it, Miss Kingston, I'm not gonna do it," Charlie said. He leaned against his desk and took another puff.

"Oh, that's a little dramatic, don't you think, Mr. Barber?" Rita asked with a sweet smile. Charlie caught it. He knew she was flattered.

"No one else has seen the script. Just my manager. And Darryl. Now, I want _you_ to read it, too."  
  
Rita's eyebrows furrowed. 

"If I may be honest and forward with you, Miss Kingston--"  
  
"Rita."  
  
"Rita. If I may be forward with you, the script was written around you. I didn't imagine anyone else in the role of Christina."  
  
Rita smiled again. This time, Charlie smiled back. Myron cleared his throat.

"So, if I'm clear. You saw my client--you saw Rita--I don't know, on television--on the stage or in a movie, and your first reaction was to write something sexual about her?"  
  
"I'd at least like to read it," Rita interjected. 

"No, no, no Rita," Myron said. "You've gotta think about your career. You've got to think of the hundreds of colored girls who look up to you and want to be like you. You're an angel. You're a doll. You're not a vixen or a tramp."

Myron sighed and rose from the sofa. "I'm sorry, Mr. Barber. But this just won't do."

_"Oh, ye-es, I'm the great pretender (ooh ooh)_

_pretending that I'm doing well..._

_My need is such I pretend too much._

_I'm lonely but no one can tell."_

It was an already-hot Sunday morning when Rita was cleaning her bathroom. She was humming to The Platters and sprinkling her tub with Ajax when her phone rang. She walked into her living room and pulled the beige handset away from the wall.

"Hello?"

"Rita?"

Rita walked a few feet to the radio on her small bookshelf and turned the volume down. "This is she."

"It's Charlie Barber."

She turned the volume down lower. 

"Good morning, Mr. Barber. How'd you get my number?"

"I asked around."

"Hmph," Rita grunted. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"

"I'd like to bring you the script to the play. Without interference."

Rita leaned against her wall. "I don't know, Mr. Barber. Myron would be really upset with me."

"Is Myron your Dad?" Charlie asked. Rita knew he was being sarcastic, but there was still a firmness in his voice. A slight irritation.

"No, but he _is_ my manager. And a very good one."

"Honey, if you ask me, he's a hindrance."

"Honey?" Rita repeated. "Aren't you married, Mr. Barber? I don't think your wife would appreciate you calling me Honey."

"We're separated."

"So, you're married?"

Charlie laughed. "I didn't mean anything by it, Rita. I won't call you Honey ever again."

Rita could feel her cheeks burning, and she wanted to slap herself for it. "How about I come to _your_ house to get it. Or we could meet somewhere?"

"Why can't I bring it to your place?" Charlie asked with a hint of playfulness in his voice. 

"I don't know you!" Rita responded with a giggle. Charlie laughed again.

"So, it's alright for you to see my house, but I can't see yours?" he asked.

"Maybe I'll have a party someday and give you a tour. I'm sure you'd _love_ the radiator that makes a loud banging noise when the heat comes on."

She heard another soft grunt on the other end. It sounded like a smile accompanied it. "Name the place and I'll meet you."

* * *

**  
January 1964  
**

"I don't particularly care for it," Charlie said. He took a swig of his scotch.

The smile disappeared from Rita's face, as it did Myron's. Myron shifted in his seat and Rita looked over her shoulder at Charlie.

"What's wrong with it, Honey? It's just a little singing spot."

"You're a Tony-nominated actress and somebody wants you to sing in a grass hut with a bunch of kids in bathing suits?"

"It's a big thing now, Charlie. Surfing and beaches--a real big thing with the teenagers. The script is funny and family-friendly. And I must say, it's been a long time since movie audiences have seen Rita. Well, any audience, for that matter."

Rita's eyes fell to the floor and she swallowed. Charlie took another sip of his drink.

"I don't think she should do it."

Myron scoffed. "Well, who's her manager here? Me or you?"  
  
Charlie stared at his glass. "Sounds like it should be me."

Myron scoffed again and rose from his chair. "Rita. You know where to call me."

Rita stood up. "You don't have to leave so soon, Myron." She looked at Charlie, then back at Myron. "Can't we talk about this a little more? I can get Vera to whip up some sandwiches."

"No, thank you. I've got to get back to the office anyway," Myron said.

Rita squeezed his arm and led him out of the study and to the front door. When she grabbed the knob, he turned to her and adjusted his thick glasses. 

"He's ruining your career, Rita. And your life," he whispered. Rita heard Charlie's glass clink down onto his desk.

Rita forced a smile. "No, he's just...he's just trying to help. He wants to make sure my career maintains a certain polish, you know? Sophistication." 

Myron took Rita's hand and squeezed it. "No, he's doesn't, Rita. You know he doesn't."

Rita swallowed. She tilted her head and let out a soft breath.

"He's my husband," she whispered.

"I know, Kiddo. And that's the part I hate."

Myron grabbed the door and stepped out into the blistering cold. Rita stood in the doorway and watched him walk to his car and drive away. When she stepped back to close the door, a chill went down her spine. She could feel the blood rushing through her veins. She could feel his heat. She pushed the door closed and turned around to the sight of Charlie in the study's archway with a fuller glass. She forced a smile and walked toward him. 

"I haven't done anything for a long time, Honey," she said. Charlie just stared at her--eyes taking in her perfect skin. "It'll just be a little singing spot."

"I said no."

Rita rubbed his shoulder. "Is it LA you're worried about? You cou--"

Her voice was silenced with a "thwap" against the air that landed as flesh against her face. She stumbled away from him and held on to her cheek. She silently prayed that this didn't just happen--that the burn against her skin wasn't from the back of Charlie's large hand.

"What the fuck did I say?" he growled--forcing her to accept her reality. He'd almost made it to a month since his vow to "be better".

Droplets streamed down Rita's face. She'd stood up straight and stared at Charlie with wide, hurt eyes. Then, she noticed a figure on the steps. 

"Nice clean sheets on the bed, Mrs. B," Vera's shaky voice echoed throughout the foyer. His drink still in his hand, Charlie walked across the foyer and into the living room. Rita walked into the study and sat down on the sofa. She held her face in her hands--hoping to hide it from the old woman now standing in the doorway with an empty laundry basket.

The study's doors closed and Rita heard and felt Vera walk to her. The sofa dipped beside her and a hand fell on her shoulder.

"You alright, Mrs. B?"  
  
Rita lifted her head and wiped her eyes. "I'm alright." Then, she rubbed her face--attempting to soothe the pain.  
  
"Mrs. B, I love working for you. You're one of the kindest, sweetest, and most caring people I've ever worked for," Vera said.

"Thank you," Rita mumbled. Then, she sniffled. 

"But I can't stick around with this happening. I'd follow you all around the world if you asked. But I can't stay here. I can't stand by and watch this anymore."

Rita nodded and looked back down. "I understand. If you want to go, I understand."

"Mrs. B, I want _you_ to leave. I want _you_ to want to go. You don't need to take this."

Suddenly, the study doors slid open again. "Vera, I'd like a sandwich."

Rita heard Vera take a deep breath. Then, she stood up. "Yes, Mr. Barber. Any specific kind you'd like? Ham and cheese? Peanut butter and jelly? Knuckle?"

Charlie chuckled. "Be very careful, Vera."

Vera turned her attention to Rita. "May I fix _you_ a sandwich, Mrs. B? Something to drink?"

"No thank you, Vera."

"I want a BLT," Charlie said. That signature sternness in his voice.

Vera adjusted the skirt of her uniform. "Coming right up." She and Charlie stared at each other as she walked out of the study.

Footsteps approached Rita. Charlie's long legs were in front of her, then he knelt to her level and took her hand.

"I'm sorry."

Rita looked past him and he kissed her hand. Her eyes fell on his again.

"You said you weren't going to do that anymore," she whimpered. 

"I know, Honey, I know," Charlie said. He rubbed her knuckles. "But you have a reputation to uphold."

His fingers left her hand and rested on her unharmed cheek. He rubbed under her eye with his thumb.

"I don't want to see my beautiful wife singing and dancing with some fucking Mickey Mouse club kids. _I_ can do a lot better for you, Honey."

"Myron's been my manager for almost ten years, now, Charlie. He wouldn't steer me wrong."

"See, _that's_ the problem," Charlie said, finger aimed at her. "He's been your manager for almost _ten_ years. You need something new, now. The man met fucking Rudolph Valentino, for fuck's sake. You need someone who knows you better. Someone who knows you like I know you."

He ran his hand down Rita's cheek and stopped at her forearm. "Someone who knows you as a _woman--_ and not just as a girl from Georgia."

"What are you saying, Charlie?"

"I think you know what I'm, saying, Beautiful."

"Charlie, I'm not firing Myron..."  
  
Charlie smiled and straightened his knees. He kissed Rita on the forehead and walked toward the exit. 

"I'll fire him for you, then," he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Referenced music: "The Great Pretender" - The Platters (1955) (Lyrics by Buck Ram)


	5. Mrs. Barber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A doctor confirms what Rita already knows, and she learns a little bit about Vera's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: Vera's mannerisms are heavily inspired by "Hazel", the 1960s TV character.

"Well, Mrs. Barber..."

Dr. Shelby walked right into the office with his clipboard. "...you are absolutely pregnant. Again."

Rita's face didn't change. She already knew. Her eyes followed the balding doctor as he crossed the floor and sat opposite her. "But I've called you into my office because I'm a bit lost."

He took off his thick glasses and looked at Rita with confused eyes. Rita didn't feel any warmth. Any concern. Just...questioning. 

"What happened between now and the last time you were here?" he asked.

She drew in a deep breath, but before she could speak, he pushed on.

"Are you seeing another doctor? Did something happen? I need to know these things as your gynecologist."

"I had an abortion," she answered abruptly--her mind _desperate_ to quell his judging voice.

Of course, the confusion didn't disappear from his face. If anything, a layer of superiority filled his skin like a layer of foundation. "May I ask why?"

"Are you supposed to?" Rita asked.

The doctor scoffed and sat back in his chair. "Does Mr. Barber know?"

He raised a smug eyebrow. But with an invisible dagger pressing into her heart, and her own screams ringing in her head, Rita raised one, too.

"Yes, he does."

* * *

Vera slid a steaming cup of tea in Rita's direction. Rita pulled it closer, allowing the heat to sting her hands a bit. She indulged in the warmth of the beverage's steam.

"Do you know what you're going to do?" Diane asked. 

Rita rubbed her forehead. "I guess I'm going to have a baby."

Diane rubbed Rita's back. 

"Maybe..." Rita looked at Diane with curious eyes. "Do you think it might help?"

"Hmph," Vera grunted. She was tending to dinner on the stove and looked over her shoulder. "Not a chance, Honey."

Rita sighed and rubbed her forehead again. "I don't know what to do. I can't leave him, I can't--"

" _Why_ can't you leave him?" Vera asked.

Rita struggled for her answer. "I...I don't want to hurt him. I--"

"Rita?!" Diane exclaimed. "You stop it right _now_. You don't want to hurt _him_? Do I need to pull your dress down and put you in front of a mirror?"

The lump formed in Rita's throat. She buried her face in her hands and let the stinging tears form.  
  
"I'm sorry," Diane said, wrapping her arm around her. "That was a bit much."

"No, it wasn't," Rita said, shaking her head. She lifted her face and dabbed her eyes with her knuckles. "Still, if I leave him, my life will be over. My career, everything. He'll make sure of that."

Vera sighed. "I don't believe that to be true, Mrs. B."

She covered a pot and walked over. "But let's say that _does_ happen. Your safety and sanity are much more important than your career, don't you think?"

Vera walked to the cupboard and pulled out a mug. "Would you like a cup of tea, Mrs. Diana?"  
  
"You can call me Diane, Miss Vera. And no thank you." Diane looked down at her watch. "I actually should be making my way back home."

Vera dropped a teabag in her mug and began to fill it with the kettle's remaining water. "I used to date a bandleader..."

Rita and Diane quieted themselves, preparing their minds for Vera's imminent story. 

"Sonny Stewart. He had ocean blue eyes, brown hair. He was tall and slim. All of the girls loved him. And I was one of twelve chorus girls at the Barrel Club--and he had his eye on me. _Me_. Just a scrawny kid from Brooklyn who knew how to kick her legs up high."

Rita and Diane smiled. 

"We became an item, and soon he got invited to lead the house band at a club in Chicago. He accepted the job, I followed him, and soon we got engaged. And I tell you, we weren't engaged but for a few weeks before he started getting crazy..."

Vera walked to the island counter with her tea and hunched over, resting herself.

"I bought this nice satin dress. It was low in the back--real scandalous, but real glamorous. He told me I wasn't wearing it, and I said that I was--and he popped me _right_ in the mouth."

Diane shook her head, but Rita sat still and listened. 

"He apologized and went into this whole thing about how he didn't want anybody lookin' at his gal, and all that. So I thought, 'Okay, the poor thing doesn't want the fellas gettin' fresh with me. Okay, I get it.' Which was strange because I used to wear less on the stage. A few months pass by, I'm bored, so I bleach my hair. Platinum blonde! Like Jean Harlow, see? Because I wanted to be Jean Harlow so damned bad."

Rita and Diane chuckled.

"He got mad, huh?" Rita asked.

"Oh, he had a _fit_. Called me all kinds of tramps and asked if I was trying to get famous on him, all kinds of bullshit. Hit me again. And you know, I was in the same predicament as you. I had this blossoming career--people knew me, I knew people. But I realized, 'Okay, this guy ain't gonna stop hittin' you, Vera.' So, I bought a train ticket and left. I didn't take anything with me, just got on the first thing smokin' back to New York."

"It was really that easy for you?" Rita asked.

Vera shook her head and walked back to the stove with her mug. "Heck no. He came back and kept trying to win me back. But I refused. I'd seen the scenario play out with other girls one too many times. He got pissed, left me for good. But suddenly, no club would hire me." She observed the sizzling pots and pans. 

"That's how I got in _this_ line of work. And it hurt. It hurt like hell. I wanted to be Jean. I wanted to be Ginger and Clara. But _Vera_ needed me. Even before he started hitting me, _Vera_ was lying down and being crushed under a broken man's weight."

Rita watched Vera's shoulders move with each sturdy breath she took. She watched her hands maneuver around the stove like a top chef. 

"Difference between me and you, Mrs. B," she continued. She turned to face Rita and Diane.

"I wanted to be Jean Harlow. But you? You came up here wanting to be Rita Kingston. That's how I know that your story ain't gonna be like mine. Even now, when you're walking through the house with sunglasses on and a pound of makeup on your face, I _still_ see a star."

* * *

Vera grabbed her coat and rushed for the back door.

"Have a good evening Mrs. B," she said with a smile. Then, her smile disappeared. " _Mr. B_."

Charlie sat at the island and watched the woman leave--not bothering to acknowledge her goodbye. Then, his eyes fell on Rita as she put plates of chicken parmigiana and pasta on the counter. She forced a smile at him, then walked to the back door to lock it. Finally, she joined Charlie at the island, and they started eating in silence.

"You know..." he started. "I think it may be time for us to let Vera go."

Rita's eyes widened. "Why?!"

"She's a little intrusive, don't you think?" Charlie asked.

"I...I don't think she is..." Rita said softly. _Meekly_.

Her eyes met Charlie's, and he stared at her like a predator focused on his prey.

Rita looked back down at her plate. "If anything, I think we'll need her around even more. With me having a baby and all..."

She felt Charlie's eyes burning into her skin. Her eyes rose and met his eyes. His brown orbs traveled down her body and stopped at her belly. He put his large hand against her clothed flesh and held it there for a few seconds. Then, he smiled. 

"When did you find out?" he asked.

Rita stared at her plate. "Today."

Charlie placed his hand under her chin and pulled her face in his direction. He kissed her on the lips.

"I love you," he said. 

Her eyes fell again, and once more, he tilted her chin up.

"Hey? I _love_ you," he repeated.

"I...I love you, too."

"You're going to be a wonderful mother," he said.

Rita's heart began to pound. Her head started swimming. She wished she could believe that.

Charlie kissed her again, then climbed off of his chair. 

"Is that why we're drinking fucking water with dinner?" he asked. He walked to the fridge and pulled out two bottles of Coke. "Come on, let's have some fuckin' soda, at least."

Rita pressed her lips together and watch Charlie dig through the drawers for his bottle opener.


	6. Feel No Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have slightly cooled in the Barber household--but a visit from Henry reignites Charlie's dangerous temper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Drug use/drug mention (now added to the tags). The next chapter will be the last! Thank you all for reading this dark, painful story to its end.

Everything was perfect at first. Charlie treated her like a porcelain doll--opening every door, making sure she lifted nothing heavy. He showered her with kisses and made love to her often--slowly and carefully. Vera saw through it, of course. As did Diane. But Rita wouldn't hear any judgment. Charlie was trying, right?

Soon, word began to spread and Rita started to show. Suddenly, Rita was being yelled at daily. No hitting, just yelling--and being left home alone often. The producer of Charlie's new show pulled out. Charlie never said why, but he didn't have to. Rita knew. She watched Charlie drown his anger in his various liquids of choice.

On September 17, 1964, she had their baby, her angel. A girl, unfortunately--a girl who'd gotten her first lessons in how she should be treated from her amniotic sac. Rita's angel, Angela. Everything was fine those first few weeks, then they weren't. 

" _You know, you're the reason I'm a fucking joke in this town, now_ ," he slurred one night when Rita was nursing Angela. His frame filled the doorway, face contorted in disgust. Rita instinctively pulled her child close.

" _I didn't do anything but love you, Honey_ ," Rita responded.

Charlie's eyes narrowed and he walked away. 

Still, no hitting. Rita wished she could relish in having unmarked skin, but she knew the time was coming. In the meantime, she'd convinced Diane to convince an old theater friend to connect with his "special friend" on her behalf. 

" _Something to keep me from feeling_..." she requested.

* * *

  
"Hi, Henry!" Rita said, standing in the doorway.

Henry's face was already scrunched when he climbed out of the front seat of Charlie's car. Rita forced a smile anyway.

Henry was a great kid. Curious and observant--elements that make for a great artist, of course. But blunt. Like his father. But he was a good kid. 

"Hi, Rita," Henry responded, rushing toward the steps. 

"You ready to meet your sister?"

Henry's face lit up. "Yeah!"

"Hey!" Charlie called. "Can you help me with _your_ bags, first?"

"Yes, Sir." Henry hopped back down the stairs, rushed back to the car, and helped his father with his bags.

It was the day before Thanksgiving, and Charlie fussed at Henry most of the day--about the luggage. About holding Angela wrong. Henry tended to walk with urgency--almost run--no matter how many or how few steps he took. 

"Why are you running, son? Slow down," Charlie told him.

As time went on, Rita noticed Henry clinging closer and closer to her. He helped her with dinner--pork chops, mashed potatoes, and peas and carrots.

"Are we eating _these_ for dinner?" Henry asked, looking at the pack of frozen veggies on the counter. 

"Yeah. What, you don't like peas and carrots?" Rita asked, peeling the russet potatoes. 

"I don't like _carrots_ ," he responded.

"Well, you can take the carrots out when we sit down."

That, he did. Or he tried to. When Charlie, Henry, and Rita sat in the dining room for dinner, Henry picked the carrots out of his mix.

"What are you doing?" Charlie asked him.

"I don't like carrots, Dad."

"Eat the carrots, Henry."

"But Daaad..."

"Honey, it's fine. He doesn't have to eat them," Rita interjected. Charlie's eyes met hers with a fiery glare. Rita swallowed and scooped up some mashed potatoes.

"Eat the fucking carrots, Henry."  
  


* * *

  
"It's time for bed, Henry," Charlie said.

" _ABC Scope_ is about to come on, Dad!" Henry whined.

Rita chuckled to herself as she looked over her Thanksgiving menu, trying to figure out what she could start before midnight. Henry was such a 50-year old trapped in a 12-year-old's body. While most kids looked forward to _Shindig!_ or maybe even _The Patty Duke Show_ , little old Henry was waiting for _ABC Scope_.

"I don't care," Charlie retorted. "It's time for bed."

Rita heard the huffs and the stomping of little feet. But as she dug in the refrigerator for sweet potatoes, she heard the footsteps coming into the kitchen.

"Hey, Buddy," Rita greeted Henry without turning around. She closed the refrigerator and turned to face him. Henry climbed into a chair and watched Rita's hands.

"Are you making sweet potatoes?"

"Sweet potato _pie_ ," Rita corrected with a grin. "Do you like sweet potato pie?"

"Never had it before."

Henry grabbed the salt shaker and rubbed it between his hands like clay. 

"What about pumpkin pie?" Rita asked, grabbing a pot from a bottom cabinet.

"Yeah, I've had pumpkin pie."

"It's almost the same, just a little bit better," Rita said with a wink. She filled the pot with water. 

"Well, I don't really like pie. Cake is better!" Henry proclaimed.

"I'd have to agree with you on that one."

"Didn't I tell you to go to bed?" a voice boomed throughout the kitchen. 

Henry sighed and climbed down from the chair.

"Charlie, he's alright. He doesn't have school or anything tomorrow..."

Charlie shot a look at Rita.

"Yeah, Dad!" Henry chimed in. Charlie looked down at him.

"But we're having guests over, and they'll want to see you. Either way, bedtime is bedtime, no matter what day it is. Your brain can't function without proper sleep."

Henry sighed. "Goodnight, Rita."

"Goodnight, Honey," Rita responded--making sure her voice was louder than the thump of her heart. 

She listened for the softening of Henry's footsteps. When he'd reached the top of the stairs, she faced Charlie.

"I didn't mean to overstep, Honey, but--"

"But you did anyway," Charlie cut across.

She gulped. "I just wanted to--"

"You just wanted to what?!"

Rita's lip dropped--speechless. 

Charlie took large strides toward her, bringing the scent of vodka with him. Rita stepped back into the safety of the counter behind her and cringed.

"You just wanted to what?" Charlie repeated. He grabbed Rita's jaw and squeezed it. "You just wanted to piss me off. You know, I think you _like_ making me angry."

"I don't, Honey. Please stop," Rita pleaded softly. 

"Stop what?" Charlie asked, jerking her head around. Tears fell from the corner of her eyes, and she just closed them--anxiously waiting for whatever was about to happen, to just _happen_.

"Next time you interfere with how I discipline my son, I'm gonna kick your fucking ass, do you hear me?"

Rita whimpered, and more tears gushed from her eyes.

"Do you hear me?!" Charlie repeated. 

Rita opened her eyes, ready to answer--but she suddenly felt another presence in the kitchen.  
  
"Henry..." her voice rasped. 

Charlie's eyes narrowed in confusion, and he looked over his shoulder. Henry was in the entryway, staring at the scene with a dropped jaw. Charlie released his grip on Rita's face and pressed the heel of his palm between his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. Rita turned her back to Charlie--and Henry--and wiped her face with her hands. Charlie walked out of the back door. 

Rita quickly turned around to face Henry. She painted a smile onto her face.

"Did you want something, Honey?" 

"I just...I just wanted to play Dad's radio while I slept..." Henry answered, sadness in his voice. 

"I suppose it's alright," Rita said. "As long as it's not too loud." She grabbed a couple of potatoes to drop in the pot on the stove.

"No, I'll just go to bed," Henry said.

Rita could practically hear the wheels turning in his brain. Suddenly, he ran over to her and wrapped his arms around her waist. Surprised, Rita's arms flew up in the air, then she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hugged him back. Henry pulled away, ran out of the kitchen, and back to his room.

Rita released the air she didn't realize she was holding and buried her face in her hands. Then, she went into the first-floor bathroom and opened the cabinet door under the sink. She bypassed the bagged joints--three rolled perfectly by someone who knew how--and grabbed the little bag of white pills.


	7. What's in This Drink?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rita exits stage left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No nail-biting suspense. Rita's plan is quickly thought up and precise. WARNING: Various abusive moments are briefly described, including one involving sexual assault. This chapter also depicts drugging.

**Spring 1952**

"Hey, Dolls!"

Rita and Diane were huddled in a corner, sipping on beers and gossiping when Alonso sauntered over.

"Hey, Honey," Rita said.

"You look like you're up to no good," Diane joked.

Rita agreed with an " _Mm-hmm_..."

Alonso smirked and jutted his head in the direction of the door. "Wanna go downstairs?" 

Once upon a time, Lucille Breyer was a popular blues artist. Now, she was a woman in her sixties struggling to pay her rent every month--so, she had rent parties. Every month, she let people--young, old, regular folks, and entertainment folks--come to her apartment to dance, drink, and for an extra three dollars, to fuck in her spare room. Her only rules: no drugs and no fighting. Alonso was a dancer who lived on the floor below her. In fact, many of the party attendees lived in the building.

Alonso guided Diane and Rita back to his apartment where they shared a joint in his living room. The faint sound of music from downstairs came through his window and through the floor.

"I started looking for waitressing jobs," Diane said as she passed to Alonso. 

"Why? Macon house falling through?" Alonso asked. He took a puff and passed to Rita.

"The whole house is insane. Everybody. Kids, wife, husband. But that husband? A little too touchy-feely for me," Diane said. She took the joint from Rita and took a puff.

"Funny how we're all a bunch of dirty, ugly, no-good so-and-so's, but put us colored women in a room with those men and they lose their damn sense," Rita said. 

"Hmph," Alonso grunted. "They run after the men, too, Babygirl."

The trio rested in their mismatched chairs and passed the marijuana between them in brief silence.

"One day, y'all," Alonso said, staring out of the window--Manhattan's skyline in the far distance.

"One day, what?" Diane asked.

"One day, we're going to be out there," he answered, pointing outside. "Not worrying about where our next paycheck is coming from. We'll sing and dance, and not have to come back home to rats and leaky pipes."

"Here, here," Diane said, raising the joint. She inhaled and passed it to Alonso.

"Jimmy must have grown this shit himself," Diane added with a cough.   
  


* * *

  
_"I'm dreaming of a white Christmas...just like the ones I used to know..."_

The doorbell had rung and Rita rushed to open it. Standing on the other side was Alonso, looking dapper and lively. Rita squealed and threw her arms around him. Alonso picked her up.

"What are you doing here?!" Rita asked. Alonso put her down.

"What am I doing here? I'm home, Honey!" he said. He stepped inside and took off his coat. Rita took it. "Look at you." 

Alonso took Rita's hand and spun her around. "The baby's got you lookin' like a _true_ Georgia peach, girl!"

Rita laughed and playfully slapped Alonso's arm. Before she could get in a good conversation with him, people started honing in. They were suddenly in the presence of _Alonso Silver_ , world-renowned dancer--living between New York and Paris.

" _That's Alonso Silver!_ " she could hear them whisper.

"Let's take your coat to the guest room before everyone snatches you away from me," Rita said. 

Alonso waved hello and shook hands with party guests as Rita led him to Henry's old bedroom. 

"Diane told me you were having this party and suggested I surprise you," he said as they climbed the stairs.

"Well, I'm glad you came. Wanna see her?" Rita asked.

"Of course. Where is Diane, anyway?" 

"Speaking of babies, _hers_ has her worn out," Rita laughed. She tugged on the bedroom door and tossed Alonso's coat among the seat of others on the bed. Then, she led Alonso to Angela's room, where the toddler was fast asleep. She left the door ajar as they crept to the crib.

"Oh, Rita," Alonso squealed, looking down. "Is she tall?"

"She's pretty long," Rita said with a smile. 

Alonso admired the little one.

"I'm surprised she's even sleeping," she added. Alonso chuckled, then looked at Rita. 

"How are you, Doll?"

"Me? I'm fine."

Alonso tilted his head and stared into Rita's eyes. She averted them--looking down at Angela. 

"I know everything, Rita," he said. "How _are_ you?"

She sighed and sat in the rocking chair by Angela's crib. "I'm fine. Things have been a lot better, I swear."

Alonso looked around for a chair, only to find a dresser. He leaned on it. 

"Better? Better as in he's not forcing himself on you anymore, or...?"

"Don't," Rita whispered. She shook her head. "Everything is fine."

She straightened her spine. "Tell me about you. How long will you be in New York?"

Suddenly, the bedroom door pushed open and Charlie was standing on the other side. He turned on the light.

"Good evening," he said, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice.

Rita jumped up, walked to him, and wrapped her arms around his waist. "Charlie, this is Alonso--"

"I know who he is. What are you two doing up here in the dark?" Charlie asked. Rita's face crinkled at the scent of alcohol. 

"She was just showing me the baby," Alonso said with just as much irritation. 

"In the dark?" Charlie asked, glaring at Rita.

"We didn't want to wake her by turning on the light, Honey," Rita said, rubbing Charlie's chest. Charlie just stared at her. He slipped out of her embrace and walked out of the bedroom. Alonso scoffed.

"Better, huh? So, what would have happened before?"

"Alonso, did you come here to fight with me?" Rita asked sadly. 

He sighed and looked down at Angela. "No, Rita. I didn't."

He walked toward her and kissed her on the forehead. "I just came to tell you that I love you and that I'm just a postcard or a letter away. Hell, I'll even pay for a long-distance call."

Rita laughed and rested her head against Alonso's chest. "Thank you, Alonso. I've missed you."

"Missed you too, Doll," he said. They pulled apart and stared into each other's eyes. Then, Alonso rubbed her arms. "I've heard about another little problem of yours."

"What problem?"

"Heard you've been in contact with Jimmy," he responded. Rita scowled.

"Is Diane telling all _of_ my business?!" she asked. 

"She's worried about you. Just like I am."

"Well, y'all don't need to worry about me!" Rita shot at him, native accent slipping out. 

Alonso stared at his friend--taking in her anger. Her brokenness. He nodded. 

"Okay, Rita."

She drew in a deep breath. "Let's just go back downstairs, huh?"

* * *

**December 3, 1966**

  
Guests to the Barber home were usually tidy. All Rita had to do was tie trash bags and wipe down surfaces. Vera was gone. She'd quit last summer when Charlie was arguing with Rita in their bedroom. Vera was in the dining room when Charlie had struck Rita so hard, that she fell to the floor--making the chandelier over the table shake. Now, it was just Rita--doing all of the cooking, the cleaning, and the childrearing as Charlie ghostwrote plays and taught at NYU. 

Rita was heading up the stairs from the cleaned kitchen when Charlie called her from the living room.

"Yes, Honey?" she answered, one foot on the bottom step.

"Come here," he said.

Rita sighed and walked into the living room, where Charlie had practically sunk into the sofa--shoes off and legs spread apart. He stared at the moving images on the television.

"Yes, Honey?"

He tapped the small space on the sofa beside him. "Come here."

She swallowed and took short steps to the sofa. Then, she sat down. Charlie stared at her and ran his fingertips up her arm. Rita forced a smile and touched his hand.

"You alright, Honey?"

"Yeah," Charlie answered. His hands slipped to her thigh. "Alonso Silver. He lives in London or something, now?"

"Paris."

"What's going on between you two?" he asked, eyes burning into her skin. 

Rita sighed. "Charlie, Alonso likes men."

"Oh," he said. He slipped his fingers under Rita's skirt. She cringed and shrunk away from him.

"Sweetie, can we do this another time? I'm really tired."

Charlie stared at Rita and kept pushing his hand under her skirt until he found the seat of her panties. He pried beyond the fabric and rubbed against her flesh. Rita forced another smile and grabbed his hand.

"Charlie, I'm _really_ tired, Honey," she repeated.

Not removing his fingers, Charlie sat up and grabbed Rita by the neck.

"I don't give a fuck." He pushed her down on the sofa. "Open your legs."

Rita didn't fight. She closed her eyes and bit her lip to fight back tears as Charlie pushed her knees apart and unzipped his pants. Her eyes opened and fell to the television set. Charlie cursed at her and called her variations of "bitches" and "whores". The moment she felt him inside of her, she heard nothing else. She felt nothing else. All she could hear was her inner voice repeating, _"Pills...pills...pills..."_

* * *

  
In most cases, one doesn't know they're pregnant for weeks or months.

But Rita knew the moment Charlie released himself inside of her.

More of him. Their sex was always unprotected--sometimes he would pull out, just to see how his seed looked on her body--other times he wouldn't. Eventually, it became insignificant to Rita. That's what normal married people did--they had sex and they did it without protection. And pregnancy? That was just the reward.

And she was his wife. A wife saying "no" to her husband was like a child saying "no" to their parent, was it not? Sometimes she wanted it, sometimes she didn't. But he _always_ wanted it, and the king trumps the queen. So, they had sex. It could be soft, it could be rough. But he had it with her whenever he wanted. And Rita was almost certain that he was having it with someone else. 

But there was never a pregnancy. An unending game of Russian roulette.

But this time, Rita knew that Charlie had emptied the gun.

That solitary bullet had finally made its way into her, soon to grow into something more. An extension of two broken people. When Charlie finished, he looked down at her and noticed her tears. This time, he didn't cry or express remorse. No bath the next morning. No promise that it would never happen again.

Rita eyed the calendar--praying for each day's end. The sooner the day would end, the closer January would be--and Charlie would be spending his days at NYU again. Or at a lounge. Or in another woman's bed. She fixed his drinks. He'd caught on to her putting a lot of ice in some. But when she watered one down, he threw it in her face. 

Rita was tired. 

On December 20th, Angela Barber had a tantrum in the dining room, while Charlie was writing in the study. "Shut her the fuck up!" he yelled across the first floor.

The night before Christmas Eve, Angela cried for another gingerbread man. Rita picked her up to carry her up the stairs. Just as she'd entered the foyer, Charlie stormed out of the study and slapped Rita across the face--Angela still in her arms.

Rita was tired. And at that moment...

Rita knew it was time to go. 

* * *

**Christmas Eve 1966**

  
Rita was slow to cook dinner. She waited patiently for Charlie to demand his nightcap. 

He tapped away at his typewriter when Rita brought him a nice, stiff drink. The house was mostly silent for him--except for the radio humming softly in the parlor.

_"Mama it's bad out there!"_

_"Hey, Pops?!"_   
  
_"What's that?"_

_"What's in this drink?!"_

_"Ain't no fun to be had out there, ya know..._ "

And Rita waited.

She piddled around in the kitchen--her sweet potatoes merely simmering. At one point, she checked the bathroom cabinet to make sure she didn't dream what she'd done. Her bag of pills was empty. Two in Charlie's drink, two in the kitchen behind the cookie jar, and the remainder on their way to the river.

Finally--an excruciating thirty minutes later--she heard it. 

" _Damn_..." Charlie mumbled. He cleared his throat. 

She heard him walking toward the kitchen, and she mindlessly stuck a fork inside of a sweet potato. His empty glass clinked against the counter.

"What the fuck did you give me?" he asked. 

"Bourbon, Honey," Rita answered. She looked over her shoulder and Charlie was holding on to the edge of the counter, shaking his head. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," he said, rubbing his forehead. "I probably just need to take a nap."

Rita went to the spice rack and pulled down a few bottles. "You probably just need to go to bed, Honey. You've been working nonstop all vacation."

"It's not a fucking vacation," he said breathlessly. "I'm still writing and reading fucking papers."

"I know, Honey. I didn't mean to call it a vacation," Rita resigned. "Take a nap. I'll fix you a pot of coffee."

Charlie nodded. "Wake me up in thirty minutes."

"Okay."

Charlie staggered out of the kitchen.

Rita listened to his footsteps trail toward the parlor. Thirty minutes passed. She turned off the stove, peeped inside of the parlor, and saw Charlie stretched out on the sofa in front of the fireplace--the flames dying, and his eyes closed. Then, she rushed up the stairs and pulled Angela out of her crib. The toddler stirred a little as Rita took her to her bedroom, laid her on the bed, and put her in a coat and shoes.

Then, Rita stuffed her stockinged feet into some flats, threw on the first coat she could find, and tossed the strap of her purse over her shoulder. 

She tiptoed down the stairs with Angela and looked inside the parlor again, where Charlie was struggling to keep his eyes open. She speed-walked to the door.

"What are you doing?" he asked. She heard him rise from the sofa and as she turned the door locks, heard him bump against and stumble around furniture.

"I'll fucking kill you bitch!" he yelled.

She held Angela close, rushed down the stairs, and ran down the Brooklyn sidewalk--not stopping until she was a block away. Angela whined and fought to wriggle from her mother's grip, but Rita kept her arms around her as she caught her breath. Then, she speed-walked to the subway entrance that would take her to Diane and Remy's house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Louis Armstrong and Velma Middleton's rendition of "Baby, It's Cold Outside" is referenced again. Also referenced, The Drifters' version of "White Christmas" (1954) - written by Irving Berlin.


End file.
